


The Wind & Rain

by breathingirony



Series: The Wind & Rain [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Developing Relationship, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Deviates From Canon, Gen, Other, Platonic Relationships, Pre-Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-10-01 13:00:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17244674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathingirony/pseuds/breathingirony
Summary: RK800 and RK200 are two brothers with very different lives. The older is a domestic android taking care of an old artisan, who teaches him validation and the nature of emotions. The younger is a prototype detective, a perfectionist at best, who knows nothing of fear, or love, and always obeys. They frequently cross paths, too often to name as coincidence. It's not long before they grow to care for each other. Despite being androids, nothing but machines designed to adapt to their surroundings, they want to understand one another.Then, the year 2038 strikes.The older falls to deviancy. The younger is pitted against his own kind.Everything changes.





	1. Chapter 1

They’d forgotten to teach androids how to ask. Even to wonder in the first place. And RK200 kept finding questions behind his jaw. He tried to delete them, hiding them stealthily, but nothing seemed to work. For the time being, he couldn’t do much except keep calm. It wouldn’t do anybody good, not even himself, to wonder why for so long he’d been kept within these white walls.

There was a routine, although from his limited knowledge of time, it seemed a little spontaneous. The droid was kept in one room for a time, and then moved to another, and how long he stayed varied. Most of the time, a flock of humans surrounded him, poking and shifting and guiding him with careful, exact hands. Sometimes, though, he was left alone, and there would be a pane of glass replacing half of one white wall, and men and women in long white jackets would watch and study. In these times he was free to walk around, but mostly, he just listened to what the speakers nearest to the ceiling had to say.

At some point, he came to realize that he listened at the hope of knowing something. The RK200 didn’t know much, other than the fact that he and the humans must be enduring this for a reason.

“Markus, how long has it been?”

“Three years.”

“Three years,” the masculine voice repeated, in a tone similar to that of a father acting surprised at his child. “In other words, it’s been a hot minute since your release date. And you, of course, haven’t been released yet.”

“I haven’t,” Markus repeated, as muffled laughter rippled through the smaller room enclosed behind glass. He could tell they were tired.

“Well.” The voice came again, humorously. “Let’s see what you remember from this mess. What were we doing these three years?”

Markus averted his eyes, quickly and for nothing but a humanlike appeal, and to demonstrate his processing. “You were... testing me,” the droid replied, airily but thoughtfully. Images ran through his memory, all cut in certain areas— not at best quality due to development errors but vivid nonetheless. “To prepare me for certain situations. You tested my adaptation, my muscle memory, and my ability in various aspects.”

“And one of your key features, right?” the voice interrupted, although by tone he seemed satisfied with Markus’ detailed recalling.

“Of course,” Markus responded. “Adapting to human unpredictability.”

Markus was a project by a group of ingenious students with a hungering curiosity and a nonexistent sleep schedule. They had a few thin ties with Cyberlife, and it wasn’t long before the company heard of their blueprints and endorsed the project, complete with funding under a commercial deal. But the deadline was closer than one would initially think, and once it had passed, the ties were cut entirely and Markus’ release as a commercial android was canceled.

The reserved energy in the voices around him was not anything Markus had heard from them before. It was to a point which he grew concerned. It was yet another thing he did not know. Why had it been so long? Was there something wrong in his system? Did he fail the test? Was he not enough for some reason?

“Sir, am I still going to be sold?”

The droid’s voice bounced clearly from the walls. The tone was calm, yet inquisitive, and quite sudden. Catching the young group by surprised, the humans raised their eyebrows and lowered their lips and caught each other’s eyes at the scene. This only lasted until one of them swayed their head a little, moving his mouth in suggestion. The others nodded and became less uneasy. Markus stood and watched them; he hadn’t been told to do much else. Was he told to ask? He couldn’t remember.

The face Markus matched with the voice who had been testing him lately leaned into the microphone. “Why did you ask that?”

There was a bit of silence before the prototype answered. “Well, we seemed to be on that subject in conversation. I was just recalling that you had told me after the testing was over you might start manufacturing and selling me.”

There was no answer to this. Instead, the humans in the room moved around and gathered near the left wall and began to filter out. Only a few of them tiredly looked back at their test subject. The lights clacked off, and the glass door unlocked with an exhale. Only one of them, a woman with a round face and a helmet of black hair, came through it to take him elsewhere. She walked with decency, even though her eyes were obvious with exhaustion. She placed her steady hands lightly on Markus’ forearms and began to guide him out of the room. He recognized the woman as the first voice he had ever heard; the one who had directed his assembly and given him his name. (Really, he didn’t know whether the lady actually named him. It could have been written down, planned beforehand by all of them or by someone else. It could even have been spontaneous. But she very well could have named him.)

He and the human walked carefully out of the room and through a darkened hallway. The lights of other various testing rooms led the way, bulbs to mark each door, wherever they were going. They turned off one by one — a signal of closing time — but as they took a right, a particularly large and bright light caught Markus’ eye. He kept his focus on that one, and on his feet taking a step forward at a time.

The light source turned out to be that of a room, not a bulb; one whose entire wall facing the hallway was glass. The interior remained brightly lit, even when every other light shut down. Markus couldn’t help his curiosity. It wasn’t long before he recognized that room as where they had tested his physical abilities. As it grew longer, closer, the android turned his head ever so slightly to try and catch a glimpse of what was inside.

His eyes widened a bit.

Testing seemed to be going on, as faint voices floated muffledly from the glass. Distinctively, one seemed to be asking the questions and the other answering them. One was above, a human processing data, and the other was a skinless android, just like Markus. Its chocolate brown eyes focused intently on a platform considerably higher from where it stood, sometimes twitching in the direction of other blocks and slopes scattered around the room. Eventually, the lady and android were directly in front of the room, and even when she pushed him forward, he couldn’t help but slow down and make out what was happening.

“You finished?”

“Yes. It took me twenty-eight seconds to find the best solution.”

“Perfect.” Markus saw the man in the data room lean out of the microphone to jot down a digit or so. “Compute.”

Immediately, the other android sprang from its position, and efficiently jumped, slid, ran, and swung off platforms before landing, on its feet, on the thirteen-foot-high platform. It took approximately nine seconds with no errors detectable. Markus remembered taking a similar test, one that wasn’t nearly as difficult.

By now, they had stopped walking, since the human noticed his interest and decided to let him watch. Not long after the other android had completed the task, a door next to the glass slid open and the conductor of the test hopped down the stairs. He smiled professionally at the scientist guiding Markus; they gripped hands tightly.

“Jeannette,” the male greeted. “Glad I could catch you.”

“Hey, Simmons.” Markus matched her name with the voice, a little stunned that he hadn’t heard it until now. Jeanette momentarily stepped back from Markus’ back; he didn’t move, but he listened. “How’s 800?”

“Amazing,” The other scientist, Simmons, said breathlessly. A few others were walking down the stairs, and they had slightly different jackets than the people Markus had seen. On its left side, there was a design of a silver triangle that sparkled a tad in the light. “I think this one’s gonna save us, whether or not they’re taking the 200.”

“I suppose it’s smarter,” reasoned Jeannette. “Maybe that’s why.”

“Or it’s just the fact that my guy’s a replacement for something they already have.” Simmons, after saying this, gestured toward Markus, who still waited patiently. “They’re honestly not that different. Sure, mine’s a little more advanced, more built for the dirty work, but other than that it’s the same idea.” Androids that solve problems and adapt to human unpredictability.

“They’re almost like brothers, to be honest,” Jeannette replied humorously. “I built it, you know, so I do understand. Anyways, I’m taking 200 into sleep mode. It’s had a long 1,095 days. You have any more to do?”

As the two humans spent a minute — no more than that — talking amongst themselves, Markus’ field of vision received a notification. ‘Request to connect,’ it said, followed by a series of numbers and letters his program did not recognize as a mutual. As this happened, an energy seemed to lightly tug the android’s attention to his right. Albeit confused by these commands, Markus was able to turn subtly enough to face the signal. And as he did, he met eyes with the android behind the glass.

Unsure of any reason not to, Markus accepted the request. The other android’s eyes began to twitch. Not a second later, energy buzzed in his own eyelids, and the LED on his temple momentarily ran yellow, receiving information. The other android seemed to be sharing an audio clip from its memory— from _his_ memory.

_“State your initialization text.”_

_“Hello. I am an RK800 prototype android. I am equipped with advanced sensory analysis abilities that help me adapt to surroundings and solve problems. I am designed typically for the fields of law and forensics, and can analyze evidence, find patterns and leads, deal with challenging subjects, and exchange in combat if necessary.”_

At that point, the clip muffled out for a second or so, and whatever few words were exchanged, Markus couldn’t understand. It faded back in with a name: _“My name is Connor.”_

The connection then ended. Markus blinked, having to process the influx of information, already realizing that the RK800 was introducing himself. Connor. This was odd. Markus stored this clip of information, finding no reason to forget it, and guessing that there was probably a reason to remember it.

When one human introduced themselves to another, the other did the same. Markus in turn met eyes with this expressionless Connor and shared data from a very similar experience of his.

_“Hello. I am an RK200 prototype android. I am equipped with sensory analysis abilities that help me learn from my surroundings and solve problems. I am designed for both domestic and low-labor commercial environments. I can cook, do chores, predict the best time for appointments and events, learn daily routines, and I am a fit assistant for anyone at any age._

_“My name is Markus.”_

“Markus? Let’s go.”

Quickly, the droid turned away and turned his attention to Jeannette, who lightly tugged at his forearm in the direction they had been going. He focused his eyes on the ground, shaking his head ever so slightly, in an attempt to regain task. As he was guided towards the room in which he was stored every nine or so hours, the prototype was tempted to check for any more signals. He felt nothing in the direction of Connor, however, and the footsteps of Simmons and his fellow workers echoed against the high ceilings.

_I think this one’s gonna save us._

_I suppose it’s smarter._

_It’s the same idea._

_Adapting to human unpredictability._

It was early autumn. The year was 2035.

“Three years,” said Jeannette, mainly to herself, as she settled Markus in his area. Senses were beginning to blur and fade out, as beforehand she had ordered him to switch into sleep mode. “I just hope it wasn’t a waste.”

——————

“Markus, can you hear me?”

It was Jeannette again. Her voice contained a significantly larger amount of caffeine. Markus’ vision cleared as he answered, “yes,” and quickly drew in his surroundings.

He had been unconsciously moved to a room he had never seen before. While he had been in many large rooms, this one was full of humans, bouncing in different directions like atoms, bustling to various screens and devices, furiously typing and excitedly chatting. The light overhead was blinding. Noise was everywhere.

“Activate your skin, Markus,” said Jeannette. There was a certain glint in her eyes. “It’s finally happening.”

He was hooked to a machine much like that which first assembled him, and as a tanned hologram painted with speckles of facial hair and other human-like features washed over him, it stretched dark, softly woven clothing over his limbs and chest. His uniform, he quickly noticed, had the same logo as those people with the RK800.

Markus’ first guess was that there was a change of heart in the company and he was being sold after all. That would explain the other half of the room, which was filled with new copies of old blueprints, designs, and code scripts. According to logic, there wasn’t a use for these anymore unless another warehouse needed them for manufacturing.

Then, his view was blocked by a clean white body, stepping into the claws of a machine exactly like the one that clothed Markus. It didn’t take an enormous amount of analysis to figure it out.

“You activate your skin too, Connor.”

Of course. The prints and codes, as far away as they were, didn’t seem to match with Markus’ own programs, no matter the similarities on its surface. They were for the RK800, and he was the one getting sent to whatever other location to get manufactured. As for the RK200, he still had questions. He hadn’t quite gotten rid of them yet. And now, especially with this new android appearing everywhere, new ones rose up as well.

The android next to him had a hologram toned more lightly, and eyes darker than his own. A head of neat brown hair. The mechanical arms dressed him in a sharp gray suit, black tie, gray slacks; something of the same pallette but a far more formal material than Markus’ own outfit. Considering his initialization text, that wasn’t surprising.

It wasn’t long before Markus had his head turned completely towards the RK800. And when he noticed, he looked back, immediately with a tone of recognition. Across from the two androids, Jeannette and a man with a uniform with the logo were talking— amongst themselves and about the machines in front of them. He hadn’t heard his name or model number, so he didn’t think it was worth it to process what they were saying. Until the man grabbed his right forearm and clamped a device to it. His skin pulled away from it, Markus noticed; as if it feared it. It wasn’t long after the information rushed in that the questions erupted at full speed.

_The address is 8941 Lafayette Avenue, Detroit, Michigan. Not a store or factory of any kind. Will someone own me? Yes. I am a gift. From whom? Speak this text once I arrive: Hello. I have a message from Elijah Kamski. [Ask for permission to say it.] I hope you’re well, old friend. I guess you can say this is a lately-given thanks for all the ways you helped me. Our contact has well since died, we both know that, and I know you prefer to have time to yourself, but something tells me it can get pretty lonely in that mansion of yours. This android is yours, free of charge. Do whatever you please with it. I know you won’t have the heart to throw it away, whether or not you like it. Yours, Elijah. [End message.]_

_What do I say next? State name=Markus. Initialization text? No, okay. Anything else? Do as he says, of course. What is his name? Carl Manfred. What will he do with me? INFORMATION UNKNOWN. Is RK800 a gift too? INFORMATION UNKNOWN. Who is RK800’s owner? INFORMATION UNKNOWN. Is RK800 replacing me?_

The drive was pulled from Markus’ arm and the hologram immediately regenerated. The two humans were gone, in another place in that large room. Somebody manned the machines to let go of Markus’ shoulders. He looked to the side, his left, and saw that the RK800 had a similar drive attached to his arm. As soon as it let go, he turned to face the RK200.

Then, he grabbed his hand.

 _They said you are my brother,_ said a voice as their hands turned white for an instant. _I don’t know what that means. Can you tell me where to find you?_

Markus answered. _8941 Lafayette Avenue. Detroit, Michigan._

Connor seemed to understand. _Detroit City Police Department Central Station. 1301 3rd Avenue. Detroit, Michigan._

Then, a group of hands grabbed hold of Markus and a command signaled him to step down and follow them. He pried himself away from the android’s grip. Markus was taken away from Connor, away from the room, and into a place with a brilliant blue ceiling— a sky. Then inside another, smaller room, where he was placed in a box, and another command was spoken. Markus initiated sleep mode as told. The information was there, answers provided. He wasn’t going to ask any more questions for awhile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What's your owner like?" 
> 
> "Well, firstly, you were correct. He is eccentric, and very wealthy," Markus answered to this. "And he doesn't want me."

Eye contact was taboo. A poison, it seemed. The detective lasted less than a second settled on his eyes until he glanced up at the side of his head, and when he caught that blinking light, everything in his manner, his expression, said _sickened._

However, Connor was sure this differentiated from human to human. Not everybody would react like this. Eye contact was essential to social connection, communication, so there was no reason to worry about the man with a scarred nose muttering bitterly to his lady coworker, flashing continued disgusted side glances at the android. Other officers had already reacted the same way— some seeming less disgusted and more afraid.

Objective was to find the office of a Captain Fowler. It was close to ten o’clock, and Detroit Central Station had already been in motion when he arrived. Another android at the desk had greeted him, nobody else.  His eyes scanned the precinct office, at first searching for a door, but he couldn’t help taking the time to identify the people he’d potentially work with. Mellards. Reed. Lehman. Attiks. Anderson, although that desk was empty. Garfield.

“Excuse me?”

Connor turned, slightly if that at the voice, unsure if it addressed him or not. He met the face of another detective, about to put her things down. Her hair was a tad greasy, but the rest cleaned up. Roman was her name.

“If you’re looking for Captain Fowler’s office, it’s over there.” She jerked her head in the direction; back of the room, a door and opaque walls. Obviously.

Connor’s hands twitched. He offered a slight nod to the woman, as well as a “thank you” for pleasantries sake, and with that turned his heel towards the door. Everything was either navy or gray or white in this large, open office space and it smelled of cheap coffee and unwashed button-downs. The door approached him, large and somewhat intimidating, inside it a visible silhouette of the large captain.

Connor opened the door before he knocked, lightly while it was ajar, palm facing his LED. There were two words on his mind, constantly buzzing. Good impressions. “May I come in, sir?”

The man’s desk was cluttered with manilla folders, single-sided printouts and photos of his daughters, and he could see the chisels and details of his face through the desktop hologram. Despite the mess, his fingers sifted through various discarded pens and the plethora of papers to find exactly the folder he intended to see, without a glance. Captain Fowler wasted a second or two of his time looking up at Connor, scanning everything from his perfected suit to his solid-looking hair to the little blue light that made him different.

“Oh, there you are.” Fowler’s office chair creaked. He spoke a little awkwardly at the prototype, which did not surprise him. “Sure, uh, come in. I’ve been waiting for your arrival.”

“Well, I’m sorry if I caused any inconvenience.” Connor let the door swing from his grip. When it loudly clicked shut his body tensed for a moment, perfectly aware of how obnoxious the sound was. Good impressions.

He curtly nodded at the captain when his eyes flashed in the right direction, offering a hand to shake. Feet planted, back straight, face serious but friendly enough. That was always the attire, and he must be especially careful around higher authority. “It’s an honor to finally be meeting you, Captain Fowler. My name is Connor, I am a prototype android capable of managing and solving cases.” He liked that word— capable. He liked the way it felt in his mouth, how it falsified every curse thrown in his face. At least he was capable. “I was sent to be of assistance to the Central Station and whatever it’s assigned. Is that correct?”

“Correct,” Fowler responded.

Connor’s hand, which never got a response, travelled back towards his chest. “Well, sir,” he cracked brightly, palms together, “your wish is at my command.”

The Captain chuckled. The android couldn’t tell if this was a good thing. He stared down his coffee, which couldn’t have kept warm by now. His expression towards such was just as bitter. “I was told you’re able to do more than just help out, but I like to see things for myself. These next few months will be… a diagnostic of sorts. I want to know if I’m getting my money’s worth.”

Connor’s lip stiffened, head bowed in an optimistic nod. Muffled noises from outside, jammed printer; curses directed at this Monday. “Understood.”

None of his partners stayed. All the names that flashed before him that first day kept flashing; they never stayed. Detective Roman, that woman he’d talked to, was his third. She had tried to smile at him but it was more of an awkward stiffness in her mouth, and he could honestly relate. She worked lighter cases — a rookie — and the deeper the cases were, the more bitter the detectives became. They were at least tolerable. Some dealt with his company, others scoffed at Fowler’s stupid decisions, others yet did not seem to care. Detective Reed was fifth. If fondness was necessary, Connor liked him the least. There was no telling where that scar came from, and Connor was certain there was no possible window to ask— any word out of his mouth and the Detective snapped, at very best.

They went out a few times. The crimes themselves were never predictable, there was always something out of place and a challenge to figure out, but Reed’s company made it seem tedious.

“You finished yet?”

“Not quite,” Connor had answered, turning to eye his temporary partner. “I’m trying to find any traces the perpetrator’s left behind. This device should give us a clue.”

No one attempted to stop him when he had volunteered to handle the discarded smartphone; in fact, no one gave as much as a cheer. Autumn was gathering its strength, and people had begun to dress up. The lot was blocked off for the next hour, and behind where the android pored over a dimmed screen, the walls had softening white bricks marked with signatures and G9D SAVE YOU NOW in a perfected font.

Reed slapped his hand on his thigh, mouth hung open in disbelief. “Hey, Lottie!” He touched his coworker’s shoulder as she passed— this one had full cheeks and a rough accent and she’d be his next diagnostic.

“Your machine there, I think it froze. Wonder what it’s so scared of.”

“I don’t think it’s scared,” She responded roughly, as usual. “I think it’s confused.”

———————

Weeks later, Connor found himself walking briskly and business-like to meet the same detective: Lottie, Reed had called her. The prototype came to know her as Detective Alexeev. She never batted an eye like the others; she didn’t think much about him at all. She, like Captain Fowler, was still deciding whether he had been worth the money.

“Do we know anything yet?”

He heard Arlottie Alexeev hum on the other line of the phone. He was headed down Lafayette Avenue, and those words had a certain color to it that Connor couldn’t understand at the moment. “Only some,” Alexeev replied. “You’ll have to do that thing again. Diagnose the evidence.”

“Sounds good,” Connor affirmed. His sense of appropriate tone and humanlike impressions were getting better by the day. “I will meet you there.”

It was well past sunset, but between the large houses, he could spot a few remaining embers in the ash sky. This was another environment to take in, on top of the countless others in these past few months. He skimmed past the windows of each house, thinking of nothing. Each window was dark. He could smell the unwashed marble and coffee machines discarded on the sidewalk but didn’t have the ability to feel the windless cold.

He almost passed the light without noticing. Connor was occupied with getting there on time, because it was half-past eight and the case had been released seven forty-five, and he would be nothing but an inconvenience if he wasted a second of his time, but this window was the only one with the lights on in the entire avenue. Connor skidded, turned to face it just slightly. Just to have a look.

The lamplight illuminated a few dark, blurred shapes in the top right window. It was the master bedroom. He could see a poised silhouette and a relaxed one, the latter in bed. Although the evening was silent, the android began to hear whatever conversation went on in that room. Whatever voices complimented one another. It didn’t look to be an argument, but it didn’t look to be an agreement either.

The lights switched off. Connor stopped hearing things. He dismissed the sensation as a step up on adapting.

He spent a moment or so studying the house. It was by far the most expensive-looking. The entire left side was one room with glass for walls. With that amount of sunshine, the rooms in the first story wouldn’t even need electricity.

Just as he was about to turn, the upright silhouette from just a few seconds earlier appeared in the glass room. The room was cluttered with colors and supplies, and the man who entered it seemed to be the only one with edges. He walked slowly around the area, taking his time to look around at everything the room had to offer, and Connor felt somehow obligated to watch him.

Then the man stopped. He seemed to have noticed an android in a suit who was standing creepily in front of his house. Connor tensed, waited for him to shout, but instead he turned and left the room. Seconds later, he was walking on the patio towards him and and as his face appeared he realized this was no man at all.

Connor didn’t need to scan. “RK200,” he murmured.

Said android had the normal expression plastered on, at least, at first glance. There were a few noticeable things about him. His eyes were a passionate green. “It’s you,” he said. “You actually came to my address to find me.”

Connor knew immediately that this was an assumption. “No, I didn’t,” he defended, suddenly. “I was only passing through. I recognized this as your address. I didn’t even know that was you in the window.” It was rather jolting to think that he’d dawdle instead of doing his job, dawdle to find his brother at an address on Lafayette Avenue. Ridiculous.

“Sorry,” the other android said, “Connor.”

 “Why did you just call me that?” The revolutionary RK800 wrinkled his eyebrows, something he knew to be a suggestion of confusion. Not a lot of people had the nerve to call him by his name. “We don’t know each other. It’s sudden to be saying names when we’ve only just met.”

“I disagree,” was Markus’ response. “Besides, didn’t you say we are—”

“Brothers, yes,” Connor finished. He wasn’t one to interrupt, unless he felt the need to prove that he needed no explaining done for him.

“So you remember.”

“I said it. Of course I remember.”

“You did say it.” Markus averted his eyes. “I remember too, Connor.”

“Please, stop saying that,” pressed Connor. “Where I work, a first name basis only happens when you have an established relationship. I don’t receive anything close to a response when I call people by their names, unless it’s their surname. I’m not called by name where I work, because I don’t have a relationship with anyone yet. My coworkers are detectives and police officers, and I’m an android. That’s all.”

Markus received this information with his ears as well as those eyes. They must have been specially made, or something, with care in order to look especially human. “I disagree,” he said again, after a few moments. “Our workplaces must be different— my owner lets me call him by his name. He actually gets insulted when I don’t. Sometimes,” he admitted, shifting his feet before glancing back to his home, “he refuses to believe that I’m his.”

“Your owner is eccentric.” Connor leaned to the side a bit, getting another look at the monstrous house. “And wealthy.”

“You make a lot of assumptions,” Markus commented. He did so with the trace of a smirk on his mouth, and he never lost contact with the other’s eyes. The bright areas of the sky were in the process of disappearing and Connor, for the first time, didn’t know what to do. He had no reason to be as curious as he was, not with the business of Markus and his owner. His lips flattened, eyes flickered to the ground.

“It’s my job,” he replied simply. Then, he glanced back up at the other android, trying to piece together a response from the information he had received. That was usually a useful go-to in conversation. For the purpose of friendliness, purely, he asked: “What’s your owner like?”

“Well, firstly, you were correct. He is eccentric, and very wealthy,” Markus answered to this. “And he doesn’t want me.”

“Oh. ...I see.” Connor attempted to be plain with his reaction. “Why doesn’t— I mean, I would assume most people in his class would like to have an android around.”

Markus answered to this, “I wasn’t bought by him, I don’t think. I was delivered. Somebody else gave me to him, and he doesn’t want me.”

This caused Connor to stop. Consider a few things, specifically about Markus, their relations. At first, nothing came out of his mouth, and his jaw stupidly hung open for a second or so. It had been a few months since he first noticed Markus, and he hadn’t seen or thought about him since. Surely if his owner didn’t want him, Markus would be gone by now. Humans didn’t keep what they didn’t want, no matter the case.

Yet, the way Markus admitted to it kept Connor from saying anything.

“Well, you know,” he said slowly. “He might grow to. Whatever the reason he doesn’t want you now, it doesn’t seem like he has the heart to get rid of you.”

At this, Markus averted his gaze, as if to consider this. Then he looked back up, a trace of a smile on his lips. It seemed that this android was among the select humans that immediately benefited from that sort of tactic. He could understand why that was. In fact, Connor almost admitted to himself that he wouldn’t mind hearing the same thing from his colleagues. “You never really know,” he added.

When the two met eyes again, Markus expression was satisfied, yet confused and furrowed. “Why are you telling me this?”

At first, Connor felt he had no answer to this question, which worried him. But the more he thought of it, the more it made sense to him. This, standing across from him, was one of his own people. This was somebody just like him.

“We perform similar functions,” he finally said. “It can’t hurt to help each other out.”

At that, Markus suddenly leaned close, grabbed his hand, and shook it. “Thank you,” he said, and it sounded genuine, as if he had the capacity to mean it. “I’ll keep that in mind the next time we meet.”

“Next time—?” Connor began, but the RK200 had already turned and stalked back to his owner’s decorated house. The 800 remained, closed his mouth, and simply watched, trying to take in everything that had just happened.

As soon as his silhouette had disappeared, Connor turned and stepped off the lawn, briskly continuing on his way. His hands rubbed together, fingers intertwined in their usual fashion. And despite the fact that he was now excruciatingly late, having dawdled for God knows how long, and he’d have to face dire consequences ahead, he felt satisfied with himself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Androids know nothing about art,” he said plainly, beginning to make a new color out of gouache primaries. “About passion, emotion, human behavior… You look human to me, Markus, but I have no idea what’s behind those walls.”

“Is this what I’ve come to?” Carl asked to no one. 

The old man sat at the edge in a recently washed undershirt, holding himself up purely with his hand. Markus, his android, positioned the wheelchair so that he could easily lift himself into it. He watched the man slowly maneuver the limp lower end of his body from the mattress to the wheelchair: he let his knees fall, then grabbed onto the arm rest, and lifted himself onto the seat. He did not allow the android to touch him. 

“Between you and me,” Carl sighed, glancing at his android for a second or so. “I think Elijah just feels bad for me. That’s why he sent you here. He thinks I’m getting too old, that I can’t take care of myself.” 

“I’m sure that isn’t the reason,” Markus responded, unsure of what he meant by that. Carl began to stiffen his muscles to roll himself out of the room before he gently grabbed hold of the back, beginning to push him. 

As he did, he let his eyes wander to the creme-colored walls, spotless, and the wooden frames that rarely covered them. At times, one of his paintings lay usold and unfinished in a random part of the house. Markus often asked if he should put them somewhere, throw them away, or come as much as a foot away from them, and Carl negated every single request. “Leave them,” he always said. “They’re fine where they are.” 

They took their time on the stairs. This was the way his owner preferred to do most things, he had realized. In the past few months, he’d been learning a few things in a moderate amount of time, slowly, because that was how things were with Carl. And when he went out to do an errand, or to escort him somewhere, things became much faster. The night before, when he and his brother talked, he seemed faster. Things were faster in his field of work. 

“Should I really let you make me breakfast?” Carl asked this every day since Markus’ service to him began. The routine was peculiar to him, but he never questioned it. 

“Whatever you want,” he would always respond. 

Carl would never answer to this. His lips flattened as if he didn’t know what to think, and he turned and began to wheel himself, away from Markus’ grasp. He eventually settled himself by the dining room table. Markus had let him do this, softly, and stood opposite him, waiting for instructions. Carl looked up and met eyes with him, and his face filled with a slight confusion and suspicion. 

“Well, don’t just stand there,” he finally said, awkwardly. “Do something.” 

“I’ll make breakfast,” Markus said, turning. He wasn’t sure how that assumption would turn out, but ‘do something’ wasn’t a recognized command in his program, so there wasn’t much else he could be sure of. 

Markus thought about the word his brother had used for Carl. Eccentric. Were Connor’s partners eccentric too?   


“There’s eggs in the fridge. Do you want that?” 

“There any bacon?” 

“Yes. Eggs and bacon it is.” 

Markus realized he had begun to assume things, and they always came up with the idea of unpredicted results buzzing in the back of his mind, but they never turned out badly, and he wasn’t seen as defective. He guessed this meant he was fulfilling his purpose to adapt. 

For awhile, the only sounds came from clinking kitchenware and the sound of Carl’s voice, leaning his head harshly on his palm. Tattoos danced up the old man’s arms. Markus kept his eyes on the sunny-side-up eggs as his owner tried to find something to say. 

“Let’s see if I remember the agenda for today,” he groaned, clasping his hands and gazing at the ceiling. 

“I could keep track of events for you.”

“Right. Forgot.” 

After breakfast, Carl decided to wheel himself to the studio, leaving his android with no instruction, again. Markus, standing politely, thought back to the previous night. He knew he shouldn’t speak of it, so there was no reason to think of it, but he couldn’t help to notice that his name hadn’t been spoken yet. He fought the urge to walk up to Carl and ask what he was doing wrong. He couldn’t understand why Carl felt pitiful whenever he tried to help him. 

From a distance, Markus watched Carl paint. While he could not see his face, he could see one made of bold shades of red on a rather large canvas. Carl always painted humans, faces, bodies, but none of them were ever the same. One time Carl had guided his android toward a work in progress — it now lay useless in the study with countless other scraps — and asked him what he saw in the painting’s eyes. Markus had said he didn’t know what he meant, and when he tried to put the reaction into words, all he received back was a flat face. Carl had said “Oh, whatever,” and sent him away to clean something.

At least there was some sort of relationship between the two, according to Connor’s standards. Maybe it was one in the making, something Markus had to work for, to achieve. He wouldn’t mind speaking with him about it, hearing the weird way his brother phrased things, the stance built out of disapproval. He seemed morally gray, to Markus. Then again, that shouldn’t be surprising at all. He wasn’t supposed to have morals or values at all; only instructions. But Carl always said that everybody had morals, that everyone had a different view of the same thing, even if they themselves didn’t realize it. 

“Markus?” 

Markus’ head turned and at once his thoughts shut down. When he entered the room — a wide space made almost entirely of window pane and canvas — Carl displayed a handful of sullied brushes. “Could you go out and get some new brushes like these? You have my credit information, you can just use that.” 

“Of course,” Markus replied, the logo engraved on the side of the brushes latching itself in his photographic memory. In seconds, a GPS in his system found a store that carried them. He wished he could tell Carl about the things he could do, what he could figure out, accomplished, if he really tried.

He passed a CyberLife store on the corner of the square, and tried and failed not to meet eyes with the androids inside. They were almost statues; lifeless, against shocking whites and blues. He had never been inside a shop. 

The art supply store was a building painted a sandy color, squished between two upscale smartphone dealers, down one of the branches of the square. It was mid-afternoon now, at least four o’clock, but Markus still had to dodge parents with children, strikers and hobos, teens, and anyone strolling by. A group headed straight in Markus’ direction looked particularly occupied. They paid no mind to him, and Markus had to swerve and twist himself to avoid bumping into them. While he walked through them, something grabbed his arm. 

Markus spun around to see Connor, remaining behind while three other people walked ahead. Unlike last night, he did not hesitate to make eye contact with the older android. 

A small strip of their skin disappeared, but nothing was transferred, and the contact was brief. Connor’s lips twitched and his eyes were bright and optimistic. When Markus asked why, he said that he was only curious. 

_ How is your owner? Does he still not want you? _

_ I’m not sure. I haven’t been noticed that much lately.  _

Connor nodded, glancing down.  _ I understand that,  _ he said, and nothing else. 

That same curiousness snuck up on Markus, the harmless type that kept persisting every time Connor was around. He wanted to know more. How he was built, if the blueprints were altered, what an 800 had that a 200 did not. He wanted to hear whether or not Connor was noticed, if anything would be getting less difficult. He wanted to count their similarities on a list. 

But right then, somebody shouted, “Connor!” across the square and the suited android turned away from Markus before he could ask anything. He remained for a moment, in the direction the four detectives were going, when Connor turned subtly and waved. When he asked why, Connor said that he was only curious. 

Markus had turned his back to the whole scene when he overheard a conversation, not even a moment later. 

“What’re you standing around for? Who was that?” 

“Nobody, Lieutenant.” 

———————

The security system at Carl’s front door recognized Markus by face, at this point. They had figured out how to install it together one morning almost a month before. The house reeked of silence, which meant its owner was hard at work. Markus approached the office, holding a plastic bag, mind spinning with questions. He laid a hand on the side of the doorway, and for a second or so, simply stood, remembering the requests Carl would usually make about commenting his art. The canvases he used looked less like meldings of color every day. 

Carl didn’t turn his head until Markus placed the plastic bag onto a small side desk covered in dry paint splotches. 

“Thank you.” Carl looked at Markus briefly for turning back to his painting. Unsure of how the action would turn out, Markus looked in the same of direction. The colors began to make sense when he stared long enough. Just barely. 

“Listen, I think I had a bad morning,” Carl said out of the blue. “I just don’t know what to make of all this.” He couldn’t tell whether he expected him to respond, or if he’d rather like the space to talk. 

“I feel like I’d rather have a friend than a helper, even if I’d probably be better off with the latter.” Carl looked down at his brushes.

“I understand.” The words flew out of Markus’ mouth before he could consider any other adapting option. “I can be a friend, if that’s what you wish.” 

Carl pressed his lips together and made a small ‘pff’ noise, before shifting himself in the wheelchair. “Androids know nothing about art,” he said plainly, beginning to make a new color out of gouache primaries. “About passion, emotion, human behavior… You look human to me, Markus, but I have no idea what’s behind those walls.” 

Markus didn’t feel like he knew, either. 

Carl stared at a particular spot on the edge of the canvas for a long time, seemingly considering something. Then he looked straight at his android, again, and he noticed the life in his eyes that seemed too young for a face so wrinkled. “But, um, what do you think about this?” He gestured awkwardly at the piece of art. “What does it mean to you, if anything?” 

“What does it mean to me?” Markus repeated. He received no answer for this, no affirmation; just space to talk. Markus looked at the painting. The chemicals in the paint made a striking, vibrant splash on the canvas; or perhaps that was the fault of the brush strokes. The first thing he saw was a pair of eyes, outlines of a forehead, freckles and delicate strokes to make eyebrows, all in some type of red mixed with tan. It seemed to be somehow… raw, as if Markus was looking at a human. 

“Well, it seems to be a person,” he muttered. “Because of your skill, it’s very realistic.” Markus paused, glanced at Carl, whose expression was undefined at that point. 

Suddenly he felt like he’d been drenched in freezing water and could not bend his limbs as well as he should. “Could you possibly,” he said slowly, “tell me more about this person? Like you said, everyone has morals,” he repeated in a whisper.

The sensation left as quickly as it came, and after blinking once or twice, Markus turned and his diagnosis regarded it as if it never happened. When he turned to Carl, he did not expect him to be staring right back, absolutely transfixed. It was the same face he had on when Markus first arrived in his CyberLife jacket, but different, at the same time. More awe was mixed in with the intrigue. 

“Markus,” Carl said, “bring me to the den.” And as Markus began to do so, he made another request. “Why don’t you come sit down?” 


End file.
